


If home is where the heart is

by Pansexualweirdo



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Canon-Typical Violence, Coitus Interruptus, Damaged Daryl Dixon, Daryl Actually Talks A Lot, Daryl Dixon Needs A Goshdarn Hug, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Even In Death He's Annoying, Explicit Language, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Grinding, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Major Character Injury, Making Out, Men Crying, Merle Dixon Being an Asshole, Mild Blood, Mild Smut, Mutual Pining, POV Daryl Dixon, Past Lori Grimes/Rick Grimes, Pining, Protective Rick, Romance, S3 and S4 spoilers, Scars, So It Might Be A Little OOC, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Walkers (Walking Dead), prison era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24000664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pansexualweirdo/pseuds/Pansexualweirdo
Summary: Walkers. Of course. A dozen of them, at least, crowding up against the windows and moaning, already making the glass crack.“Time to go, I’ll get the bags,” Rick said, dashing back inside the staff’s room while Daryl got the entrance of the shop, killing the walkers who were blocking it with his pocket knife.Once Rick was behind him, “m’ready”, they slinked out of the pharmacy door and made a run for their car, only to see it disappear in a herd of dragging feet and undead guts. There were tens of them, if not hundreds. Clutching onto his bow, Daryl said the only thing worthy of saying in this situation.“Shit.”Or; Daryl takes Rick out for a supply run, hoping to distract Rick from his dark thoughts, but instead, they bump into a herd and are forced to find shelter for the night.[Contains some spoilers for S3 and possibly S4 but that's it. Set in the prison era sometime after Lori's death. Also contains homophobic language in the upcoming chapters, so read on your own risk]Happy reading!
Relationships: Daryl Dixon & Rick Grimes, Daryl Dixon/Rick Grimes
Comments: 14
Kudos: 117





	1. Finding Refuge

“We ain’t gettin’ out of here, the herd’s too big!” Daryl shouts in warning as he and Rick retreat from a flood wave of walkers, pushed further back in the dense forest they fled into.

They’re fighting side by side, Daryl with his trusted crossbow and Rick with however many bullets he’s got left in his Glock 17. (And from Daryl's knowledge about guns, that’s not many)

Daryl shoots a pair that got too close to him for comfort with his crossbow, making an attempt in retrieving the arrows but not getting the chance to before they’re lost in the herd. He can’t look back to scan what’s behind him for fear of tripping over his own feet or getting bit, so he rips an arrow from the quiver on his sweat-clad back and stabs the eyehole of a walker trying to swallow Rick’s face.

“I’ve got this, Rick. Can you see if there’s any shelter nearby?” he presses, using the back of that same arrow to penetrate another dead skull, too occupied to care about the blood spraying all over him.

Rick disappears further back, out of the hunter’s view, before his voice can be heard yelling his name, urgency dripping in his tone.

“In here, Daryl, quick!”

Daryl trusts Rick’s words and dodges a pair of grabbing walker claws to spin around and run to safety. If he wasn’t currently panting and two feet away from a crowd of biters, this is where he’d breathe a sigh of relief, maybe hug Rick. Because in front of him was a small house, old and abandoned, but a more than welcome sight. Rick’s in front of the open front door, frantically waving Daryl over, who almost launches himself over the porch step and inside the house, tucking and rolling. In less than a second, Rick’s got the door shut and locked and they help each other tip a bookshelf over to block it before Daryl collapses onto the floor, wheezing and coughing and thanking his lucky stars that he’s still breathing at all.

* * *

Rewind to about an hour ago, when Rick and Daryl were driving out of the prison gates to go scavenging for supplies. It was the hunter’s idea. Staying cooped up in his cell and hearing Rick’s muffled crying from his own was driving him insane, he was at the end of his rope. And surely, Rick couldn’t be content with it either. Granted, Rick was allowed to grieve, even after this much time had passed since the incident. He’d lost his wife for fuck’s sake, and Daryl might not have any family left, but he _does_ have a heart.

However, the sobbing wasn’t the only issue here. Rick was losing himself, slowly but gradually. He was spacing out half the time, talking to people who weren’t really there. The circles beneath his eyes got darker every day, as did the look _in_ his eyes, and Daryl would be damned if he just stood there and let it happen.

Now, as much as he wished to, he can’t erase the past, and going out scavenging and killing walkers to distract Rick from his own cruel mind wasn’t a permanent solution, nor was it healthy, but… Rick needed Daryl right now, needed _all_ of them. Carl, Maggie, Carol, Hershel, Glenn, they all had to be there for him. Yet most of them were too scared to reach out.

And Daryl couldn’t blame them. But he wasn’t gonna follow in the same footsteps. He never was one for abiding the law anyway.

“Thanks for coming out with me. I don’t know what’s goin’ on inside that head of yours, but I uh- y’know, I’m here for ya. _We’re_ here for ya,” he corrected himself when he felt Rick’s eyes on him, less dark but still lost.

The pair was searching through a pharmacy, packing whatever they could find in the bags they brought with them. Most of the store had been looted, but they found a ‘staff’ door guarded by a bar lock and got it open with little force, thanks to Rick’s gun.

“We should get what we can and move, the noise’ll bring walkers to our doorstep any second now,” mumbled Rick off-handedly, keeping his head held down as he rummaged through cabinets of antibiotics. Daryl frowned.

“You’re avoiding the topic. I ain’t sayin’ you _have_ to talk about it, but don’t shut me out. Not now,” Daryl almost pleaded, placing a hand on Rick’s shoulder and halting the man’s movements. Rick’s breathing was shallow, unsteady, noted the hunter, but he said nothing about it.

“Yeah, you’d know a thing or two about shutting people out, right?”

Daryl wasn’t sure what kind of response he was expecting from Rick, but hostility wasn’t high up on the list. Rick’s voice sounded tight, too, like he was isolating himself from all and any emotions that dared try and get a hold of him. Daryl let go of Rick’s shoulder, huffing out a sound of acceptance before he got back to packing his own bag, ignoring the dull ache inside his chest. Then, Rick shook his head, swiftly and boldly reaching out a hand to find Daryl’s, and the hunter turned around to face him, startled. They stared at each other for a moment in the quiet room, the air charged with something neither of them could define.

“I’m sorry. You’re only tryin’ to help and I’m acting like an asshole.” Rick apologized, a small curl of his lips softening his expression into a very brief smile.

Heat replaced the ache inside Daryl’s chest and it spread like wildfire throughout his body. He couldn’t help but give a small smile back.

“Well, I know a thing or two about _that_ , too.”

Then, interrupting the first good moment Daryl’s had in weeks, you could hear something smacking against the glass outside the pharmacy. So Daryl reluctantly released Rick’s hand and went out to see what the problem was, crossbow ready at hand.

Walkers. Of course. A dozen of them, at least, crowding up against the windows and moaning, already making the glass crack.

“Time to go, I’ll get the bags,” Rick said, dashing back inside the staff’s room while Daryl got the entrance of the shop, killing the walkers who were blocking it with his pocket knife.

Once Rick was behind him, saying: “M’ready”, they slinked out of the pharmacy door and made a run for their car, only to see it disappear in a herd of dragging feet and undead guts. There were tens of them, if not hundreds. Clutching onto his bow, Daryl said the only thing worthy of saying in this situation: “Shit.” 

* * *

Now they’re both in relative safety, trapped inside a three-room cottage in the middle of the woods only with bags full of medicine and their lives (barely) intact, walkers banging on their door. Daryl doesn’t bother standing up at first, face full of floorboard and his heart in his throat. That was far too close.

Rick’s voice fills the tiny space of the building: “You hurt?”, rough and just as fatigued as Daryl feels. All the same, he stands up and nods, looking over the area.

“M’fine. You?”

“Fine,” Rick replies, stepping into the hallway gun first, presumably checking the perimeter. You can never be too careful, after all.

Daryl takes the opportunity to exhale and scan the place. Needless to say, it isn’t much of a view. The windows are boarded over and the wallpapers are frayed, peeling off at the corners. There’s a small living room/bedroom conjoined with an even smaller kitchen, the telltale sign of open cupboards and drawers showing it’s already been raided. At least the place is still standing, and it did save both their asses from the herd. There’s a couch, candles, blankets, and even a television. Of course, that last part isn’t much to celebrate nowadays.

Deciding to try his luck anyway, Daryl shrugs off his quiver and presses the power button on the TV. He’s answered with static.

“Figures,” he mutters, turning it back off again. Rick comes back to the living room a moment later, dropping his Glock on the coffee table and sinking into the plush couch standing against the wall.

“The place’s safe at least. We should settle down and wait out the herd.”

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees, taking Rick in from where he’s standing, arms crossed. The ex-deputy looks drained, his hair and beard unkempt and his skin pale, stained with dirt and walker-blood. Daryl frowns. He grabs a red rag from his pocket and rings it up with some water from one of the bottles they brought with them. He hands it to Rick, who gratefully but gingerly accepts it.

“Wipe yer face, got blood all over ya. I’ll see if there’re any other openings in this place, we don’t want those things in here with us,” Daryl murmurs - he’s not used to talking this much but with the state Rick’s in, he doesn’t think he has much of a choice but to take the initiative - and he fetches his crossbow to do a more thorough perimeter check, but Rick stops him.

“Don’t bother, I already did.”

“And?”

“And nothin’. Front door’s our only way in and out,” Rick explains rather lazily, and Daryl clenches his teeth. “Fantastic”, he says, before moving to the kitchen, making sure every nook and cranny is looked over before he’s done.

Daryl’s brow is pinched in a lingering scowl on his face as he rummages through the mostly empty kitchen cabinets. He’s irate and extremely disheartened. He’d taken Rick out of the prison to get his mind off of things, and now they’re stuck in here for who knows how many days, where Rick will probably only be harder on himself, find a way to spin this on its head so he thinks _he’s_ to blame for this. He’d have to stand in line, if that was the case.

The cabinets are wiped clean, no surprise there, but thanks to Daryl being thorough, he spots a small vent grate on the wall close to the floor. He pries it open with his pocket knife and finds a huge container of untouched baby formula inside. And next to it, a full bottle of scotch. An odd combo, but Daryl won’t complain. He grabs both items and stares at them as though they’re miracles sent from heaven. It looks like both Daryl and Lil’ ass-kicker are both gonna be drinking well for a while.

“You find anything?” Rick rumbles from behind him. He’s made his way into the kitchen and is leaning onto a counter, warily running bitten down nails through his unruly hair. Daryl flashes him the booze but keeps the formula hidden behind his back for just a second longer.

Upon seeing the alcohol, Rick shoots the hunter a lopsided grin, but it’s nothing compared to when Daryl shows him the baby formula. He blinks once, eyes flickering from Daryl’s to the container, blinks again, and then he laughs, a hoarse sound laced with disbelief. It’s one of those hearty Rick laughs that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes Daryl’s heart swell. Rick takes a step forward and Daryl thinks he’s going to hug him for a split second - he _really_ wants Rick to hug him and he has no idea why -, but Rick places a hand on his shoulder instead, the other brushing Daryl’s hand as he takes the formula from him, lowering his head slightly as he speaks.

“Thank you.”

And then he returns to the living room, not even having taken the alcohol into consideration. So Daryl unscrews the lid on the bottle and takes a swig from the scotch, bitter and pungent. He has a feeling this is gonna be a long night. 


	2. Dutch courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Daryl and Rick are practically forced to spend time alone together thanks to the herd, will anything happen between them? With a little bit of scotch whiskey, it's more probable than you may think... 
> 
> Enjoy your read!

It’s a few hours later and the sun’s setting, Daryl can tell from the pink light that peeks through the spaces in the boarded-up windows. There are still a few stragglers banging at the front door, but they’re far fewer than they were when he and Rick first got here. Rick’s fast asleep on the couch, Daryl covered him with a blanket, and the hunter’s on the floor not far from him, keeping watch as he polishes off the scotch he’s found. He has probably drank a quarter of the bottle himself by now, and he knows it’s a bad idea to be getting drunk, but as Rick said, they weren’t getting out of here anytime soon.

Besides, Rick seems to be having the most peaceful sleep in weeks, maybe even _months_. His gentle snoring is almost enough to lull Daryl into a state of comfort, and it might be silly, but Daryl doesn’t really give a shit. It’s not like anyone’s gonna know, anyway. He’s just grateful that Rick didn’t cry himself to sleep for once.

As if hearing his thoughts and stepping in to put a stop to them before he gets too mushy, Merle suddenly appears in front of him, wearing that shit-eating grin of his and tutting his brother from his side in purgatory.

“Nuh-uh, Lil' bro, I don’t think so. _That_ shit? That pussy-ass little bitch shit? Not gonna work, I’m afraid. I can’t have my brother becoming a fag for the pig of a cop who cut my hand off, can I? No, that’d be tragic.”

Merle demonstrates by showing off his stump to Daryl, who grimaces both at the crudeness of Merle’s words and at the fact that he’s here in the first place. Daryl hasn’t seen him since he was out in the woods looking for Sophia long ago. But he should’ve suspected he’d be coming back, his brother always had impeccable timing.

“Ain’t a fag. And you don't fucken’ talk about Rick like that,” he hisses, quiet enough for Rick to keep snoozing away in peaceful-town.

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you _defendin'_ him now? Before your own flesh and blood, Daryl?”

“You ain’t all that. Just a figment of my imagination. And a pain in my ass,” Daryl huffs, taking another sip from the scotch in hope it would make Merle disappear. Fuck, he wishes it would.

“Well let me remind you, dear brother o' mine, that if this pain in your ass is a figment of your imagination, then _you’re_ the one thinkin' these things about Rick.”

Merle’s never looked so delighted even in his living days, and Daryl would definitely take a swing at him if he was any more intoxicated. Instead, he just snarls “That’s not true, shut up!”, and, both to his relief and horror, Rick stirs awake beside him, and Merle’s gone as quick as he came.

“I fell asleep, didn’t I? Fuck, how long was I out?” Rick groans, sitting halfway up and rubbing at his eyes. Now that his face isn’t splattered in blood anymore and he has gotten some rest, he looks just a little bit better. Daryl would offer to help shave his beard for him, but now doesn’t exactly feel like the time for it. He just prays that Rick didn’t hear him talking to himself like an insane person.

“Not too long. Did I wake ya?”

“Kinda. Who were you talkin’ to?” his voice is still thick with sleep, his tone not accusing but rather curious, and Daryl immediately turns his head away, his hair falling into his eyes.

“No one.”

“Why are you sittin’ down there, Dar? Come up here and join me,” Rick suggests, patting the space next to him on the sofa.

The nickname paired with his voice, raspy and morning-deep causes heat to rise to Daryl’s cheeks and, subconsciously, he can hear Merle wheezing “Faggot,” into his ear. He shudders.

“Nah, 'm good. Thanks.”

“Don’t be stupid. Get up here or I’m coming down ‘n joining ya on the floor.”

Daryl turns his head and glares at Rick in a rather weak attempt of looking intimidating, but Rick’s smiling, and Daryl’s not gonna be the one robbing him of that smile. So he reluctantly takes a seat on the couch, as far away from the ex-cop as humanly possible.

“What, I got a bite mark on my neck or something? You don’t gotta be on your guard all the time, Daryl. Not with me,” Rick assures him and Daryl blames the warmth on his face on all the alcohol he’s drank.

Then, Rick’s arm brushes his and he almost drops the damn bottle.

“Can I?”

Right. He was just reaching for the booze.

“Knock yourself out.”

The tonality Daryl went for was meant to be casual, but it sounded more choked. Daryl can’t believe how ridiculous he’s acting. This is Rick we’re talking about. His _friend_. His very close friend who he considers his own damn _brother_. Not like Merle, of course, but still, he shouldn't be thinking about Rick the way he does. And yet, when he glances Rick’s way and his eye catches on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he tilts his head back and downs the liquor, he has to look away to prevent any ideas from getting into his head.

“So, ya think the herd’s headin’ fer the prison?” he asks Rick, quiet, willing to talk about literally _anything_ to keep himself busy.

His knee bounces up and down idly, his hands can’t find a comfortable place to rest in his lap and, to top it all off, Rick’s leaning forward over the backrest of the sofa, studying the hunter intently - as though he’s trying to figure out what’s going on inside his head. If he only knew...

Daryl’s never felt as self-conscious over his appearance as he does right now.

“We came from the west, and they were going east, so it’s highly unlikely. Besides, I trust our people with my life, I know they’re keepin’ the prison safe. And Judith and Carl, everyone.”

 _It’s obvious why people trust you, too,_ Daryl thinks. Rick really does have a way of reassuring others. And Daryl knows their people are strong just as well as Rick does. No one fucks with Carol, and Maggie and Glenn are a power couple if Daryl’s ever seen one. He’s not too worried about them. However…

“What about you, Rick? You trust yerself to keep leadin' us?”

The question is underlaid with another that means to ask how he’s doing, but the way it came out sounds like he’s doubting Rick’s capabilities. See, _this_ is why Daryl doesn’t speak.

Rick’s gaze drops down onto the sofa cushions just then.

“I don’t. And I don’t blame you if you don’t.”

“That’s not it-”

“But it _should_ be. I’m completely fucked, Daryl, I dunno what I’m doin' anymore,” Rick admits, laughing, but it sounds like he’s in pain.

Daryl’s heart is in his stomach, he hates seeing the other man like this. He wants to reach out and touch him, to tell him that it’s okay, but he _can’t_.

“I just wanted to keep everyone safe, and I couldn’t even do that. Thanks to me, Lori’s gone. And I can’t ever forgive myself for that.”

Now there are tears going down Rick’s cheeks, dripping down and creating dark patches on the couch, and Daryl can no longer just watch. He ignores the voices in his head screaming at him, the need to comfort his friend is drowning them out by a long shot anyway, and he pulls Rick in for a hug, an oxymoron of marveling at and breaking apart when Rick sobs into his shoulder, clinging onto him tightly.

They sit like this until it gets dark outside. Daryl can’t tell if minutes or hours have gone by, and he doesn’t care, because _this_ is all that matters right now. Rick’s body close to his, Daryl’s arms around him, shielding him from the outside world for a temporary eternity.

“You gotta stop blamin’ yerself for stuff you have no power over, Rick. Or else it’ll consume you,” Daryl whispers, feeling Rick’s hot breath skimming over his neck and shivering bone deep at the sensation.

He wishes there was an off-button for his emotions at times like these when he fears he’ll go too far - say the wrong thing or let his affection for the man get the better off him. But he manages, as Rick’s sobbing eventually fades and the man’s still got his hands fisted in Daryl’s shirt, to pull back and put some distance between the two of them again. With the way Rick’s looking at him, this is getting dangerous. He swoops the now half-empty bottle from the coffee table and takes a few more mouthfuls of liquor than necessary.

“Is hugging me _that_ bad?” Rick jokes, but there’s a hint of uncertainty behind the playfulness in his eyes, and Daryl shakes his head.

“Nah, just, rough day.”

“Sorry,” Rick says, and Daryl sighs, shaking his head.

“Not for this. I know it wasn’t my fault, wasn’t no one’s fault, but for havin’ been so… unstable lately. Not there, y’ know?”

Daryl _does_ know. But this conversation is too real for him, too honest. It’s tearing Daryl’s heart right open, and yet _he_ was the one who asked for it. So he makes a decision and hands the bottle to Rick, done with drinking for the night.

“Don’t be sorry. You’re gonna be okay, man.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I am,” agrees Rick, solemn. He’s still watching the hunter from the corner of his eye as he drinks, and Daryl’s not sure at all anymore if he wants him to stop or not. Then, Rick sets the scotch aside and stands up, gesturing to the candles that stand on a little tray on the table in front of them.

“You cold? I think I have some matches in our luggage.”

Daryl shrugs. Now that he thinks about it, he’s a little cold. But the scotch and Rick helps with that. As Rick fishes a packet of matches out of his bag, Daryl shoots a nod his way.

“Y'got any cigarettes to go with that?”

“If only we were so lucky,” laughs Rick back, lighting the candles and suddenly, the atmosphere feels far more intimate. Warm light casts long shadows over the furniture and over Rick’s face, which is resting in a relaxed expression, a rare sight. He reclaims his seat on the couch, lifts up the blanket that’s on his side, and horror dawns on Daryl as he realizes what he’s doing.

“Huddle for body warmth?”

Daryl swallows.

“Nah, man, 'm not a fag.”

It’s out before Daryl can stop or process it and Rick’s brow flies up to his hairline. Damn- who thought Daryl could do anything stupider than ask Rick if he saw himself fit for leading the group. All the same, Rick doesn’t seem mad, just amused.

“I didn’t say you were.”

Daryl swallows once again, his throat tight. Rick is still holding up a corner of the blanket in invitation and Daryl has this sneaky fucking feeling he’s gonna cave in to Rick’s proposal whether he wants to or not. Rick’s lap is looking particularly tempting to sit in, and that glimmer in his eye… where did that even come from?

Rick sighs, rolling his eyes.

“You really gonna make me beg? C’mon, I don’t bite,” he grins, and Daryl finally gives in.

He gruffs out a “Fine”, although he’s not half as opposed to the offer as he makes himself out to be. Testing the waters, he sidles up next to Rick, who happily lifts his arm for Daryl to come closer. Daryl doesn’t trust himself to put his arms around Rick and not want _more_ , especially now that he’s got that dutch courage*, so he just leans against Rick, letting his head rest upon his chest. He can feel Rick’s body heat start to seep into him, can hear Rick’s steady heartbeat in his chest, and he lets himself relax, a sigh of happy relief slipping from his lips. Rick hums, satisfied, and shares the surprisingly clean blanket with the other, tucking it around his shoulders. Daryl’s too tired and too comfortable to object.

Then, Rick ducks his head and presses his nose against Daryl’s head for a moment so short the hunter can’t tell if it's supposed to be a kiss or not. Either way, Daryl’s content where he is right now, pleasantly buzzed and drinking in the view of the flickering candlelight. The lullaby of Rick’s pulse in his ear is pulling him into a sense of security, his eyelids growing heavy with each breath he takes. Before he knows it, sleep has taken him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Dutch courage, as mentioned in the chapter title and in this excerpt, is the extra boost of bravery you might get from drinking alcohol. :)


	3. There's always tomorrow

Daryl is jolted awake by the sound of the front door slamming open, and he’s up in an instant, grateful he didn’t leave his crossbow far away when he’s aiming it at the head of the intruder standing in the doorway. The couch is empty too, and a thousand horrifying images of what might have happened to Rick flash by in Daryl’s mind.

Then, the intruder stumbles - nearly _falls_ \- a step forward, and when Daryl realizes that it’s not an intruder at all but an injured Rick, he lowers his crossbow, catching Rick before the floor does.

“Rick? The fuck happened, why’d you go outside? You got a death wish or somethin’?!” Daryl nearly growls, furious yet petrified when his hand that’s wrenched around Rick’s arm to keep him upright gets coated in dark red blood.

“Had to piss. There were no walkers left outside the door, but... “ Rick trails off, wheezes out a laugh. “This one fucker snuck up on me while I had my guard down,” he continued.

Daryl’s blood runs ice-cold, his grip tightening around Rick and his breathing getting funny as one question presents itself to him. _Is he bit? Is he bit? Is he bit?_

“I’m not bit,” Rick adds as if Daryl had been speaking his thoughts aloud, and an embarrassing, broken noise makes its way out of Daryl’s throat as his crossbow drops next to them on the ground, forgotten, and he hugs Rick tightly.

“You’re gonna give me a damn heart attack,” he mutters. Rick sucks in a breath through his teeth and Daryl remembers that he’s still hurt, so he loosens his grip around the man, his hands sticky with blood now. He helps Rick onto the sofa and asks him to stay put while he barricades the door again. He returns to him after rummaging through their bags for a first med kit - they’re lucky they still even _have_ these - and kneels down in front of Rick, looking him over. Rick flashes him a reassuring but tight smile, telling him not to worry.

“It’s just my arm, no big deal,” he promises, rolling up his right, soaked shirt-sleeve and revealing a nasty claw wound stretching across his bicep. Daryl winces. “No big deal my ass, you’re bleedin’ like a pig,” he says and sits down next to Rick on the couch, pouring some disinfectant onto a cotton pad to clean up the blood trickling down his arm first.

“You’ve certainly got a way with words, nurse Daryl,” teases Rick and Daryl wishes he wouldn’t be this way when he’s trying to stop his bleeding.

“Shuddup.”

“Okay, okay,” Rick laughs, but it’s choked off when Daryl begins to clean the actual wound. He flinches with a pained grimace on his face.

“Sorry. I have to clean it, make sure ye don’t catch an infection,” explains the hunter, guilt audible in his voice when he speaks, and Rick nods slowly. He lets Daryl take his arm again and grits his teeth to muscle through the treatment - if you could even _call_ it that. Daryl tries to make it as quick and painless as he can. He cleans Rick’s arm and bandages it, keeping the pressure on it somewhat tight so the wound won’t open up more with Rick’s movements.

“There. Hershel’ll take better care of it when we get back but it’ll do fer now.

“Thank you. Really.”

Daryl lowers his head, shrugging his shoulders and closing up the medkit, avoiding Rick’s gaze that burns into him.

“Ain’t nothin’,” he says, feeling undeserving of Rick’s kindness, but then Rick touches his cheek, rough fingertips barely skidding over his jawline before Daryl flinches away from his touch, blinking up at the man in pure, unadulterated shock.

“You’ve got blood right there. Hold on.”

Rick fetches the rag Daryl handed him earlier, and he doesn’t leave Daryl any room to object before he's closed the distance between them, one hand cupping Daryl’s cheek and the other holding onto his neck so that he can keep him still. Daryl’s frozen solid, stiff as a board, not daring to do so much as breathe as Rick gently wipes the blood off his face with the red cloth, his touch soft. His calloused fingers move in featherlight motions over his face, like being too rough might break him, and Daryl’s _never_ \- not once in his _life_ \- been so tenderly taken care of before, like he’s something precious to be protected. Their faces are inches apart now and Daryl doesn’t know where to look. Rick’s literally a breath away and he’s beautiful, scars and grimy beard and all. Daryl’s terrified, so _very_ terrified that his brother and father were right about him. That he might just be a big faggot.

“Rick," he attempts, voice hoarse and laced with anguish. He grabs Rick’s wrist that’s hovering above him, halted in its movements by Daryl’s voice. He’s unable to stop a fat, embarrassing tear from rolling down his face.

“I’m not… I _can’t_.”

“Why not?” Rick whispers back, breaking Daryl’s weak hold on him to wipe his tear away with his thumb. Daryl couldn’t move away from Rick now even if he _wanted_ to, he needs his touch like a dying man needs water. Needs to feel what it’s like for someone to care, to know that this is _real_.

“I… I…” he stumbles over his words, tongue too big for his mouth, his heart hammering violently against his ribcage. He meets Rick’s eyes and bites back a litany of curses.

“Shh, you don’t need to say anything, Dar… I got you,” Rick promises, his eyes glistening with honesty, fondness, and want, _so much want_ , Daryl can see it now, and he manages a nod, then another, silently begging Rick to kiss him.

And Rick does.

He presses his lips against Daryl’s so very gently, for just a brief moment as to allow Daryl to pull away, but now that the hunter’s got a taste of Rick, he wants _more_ , so he fists his hands in Rick’s curls and pulls him back in for another heated kiss. Rick tastes of fiery scotch and breathing him in is like inhaling fresh air after almost having been suffocated. His lips are a little chapped but impossibly soft against Daryl’s and each peck they share heals him a little more. Rick smiles into the kiss, straddling Daryl’s lap and letting his hands come around his back and up beneath his shirt. His fingertips ghost over the scars there and his touch burns against Daryl’s skin. Daryl can feel Rick tense up and he huffs out an annoyed sigh when Rick pulls away to ask: “You wanna talk ab-?”

“No,” he replies in a breath and steals Rick’s next one, doing a decent job in silencing him but a less successful one in ignoring the way Rick’s fingers trace along his scars in light, reverent motions. Daryl had always been in control of his partners before, and usually messing around was just that, no strings attached, but this situation is far different from any he has experienced before. Rick’s strong arms wound around him paired with his talented mouth and tongue is enough to make Daryl lightheaded and he suddenly feels this urge to let Rick take the lead.

They break apart only to get air, and they’re both panting, faces flushed and pupils dilated as their eyes meet. A laugh rumbles out of the ex-deputy, who leans his forehead against Daryl’s, stroking his neck fondly and raising goosebumps on his arms. Daryl can’t help but laugh as well, happier than he’s been in a long time. He’s got Rick Grimes in his lap after all.

“Fuck,” he exhales, hearing the mix of disbelief and lust in his own gravelly voice.

“Yeah, that about sums it up,” Rick agrees, moving in to kiss Daryl again. At first it's just a light peck, but then his hips make contact with the hunter’s stomach and they can both feel their lengths pressed against one another’s. Simultaneously, they suck in a breath through their teeth, and the air is charged as they look at each other, Rick searching for permission to continue from Daryl.

Daryl only has to nod and then Rick’s mouth is on his again, kissing him with a purpose. He slowly rolls his hips down against Daryl, and a needy noise leaves Daryl’s mouth, one that is alien to his own ears. He’s painfully hard now, straining against the zipper of his pants, and it’s all thanks to a _man_. A very special man at that. Daryl can’t afford to care about the semantics, his hips bucking up to meet Rick’s and groans spilling into Rick’s mouth when they move together, the friction small but _very_ effective.

“Fuck, you’re so responsive, Dar…” breathes Rick, voice dangerously low, and Daryl would probably mouth back to him if it wasn’t all so wondrously hot and if Rick wasn’t grinding down on his dick, rendering him tongue-tied. Rick moves his kisses to Daryl’s jawline and then his neck. He sucks a mark into the skin there and Daryl almost yelps, so turned on he fears he might explode. He bites his lip to contain his moans, hard enough to draw blood, and his hands twist in Rick’s hair, probably edging on painful. But the hunter’s reactions only seems to egg Rick on, who continues peppering kisses and licks all over his hot skin, moving up to Daryl’s ear and taking the lobe in between his teeth, which has Daryl almost panting.

“Lemme hear you, Daryl. I wanna hear how pretty you sound when I make you feel good,” Rick growls, possessive, and he sinks his teeth into the skin below his ear, making Daryl loud whether he _wants_ to be or not. Rick worries the marks he leaves with more kisses, and Daryl swears that making it out of this alive would be a miracle in of itself.

“Christ, Rick,” he breathes, clinging onto Rick like a lifeline in the middle of the sea, and he’s about to tell Rick to just fuck him already when a thud can be heard outside of the house, and then there’s that telltale growling.

“You’ve gotta be kiddin' me.”

“'Fraid not. Talk about a mood-killer,” Rick replies, shaking his head and reluctantly sliding off Daryl’s lap. The fact that he sounds just as bummed as Daryl feels makes him feel better, but not by much. The walker that invited itself to their party is just outside one of the boarded-up windows right next to the couch, smacking against it as it tries to get in to the source of the… _noise_ , that it heard.

Un-fucking-believable. Daryl just got blue-balled by a fucking walker. By the time he has exhausted his vocabulary of swear words, Rick’s blown out the candles and curled up beneath a blanket on the couch again, beckoning Daryl to join him. He has more self-restraint than Daryl does, that’s for sure.

“That’s not gonna leave until morning, probably. We should try and sleep, not much else to do,” he tells Daryl, who begs to differ.

“The hell there isn’t. I’ll go outside and kill the sunuvabitch.”

“Or you can stay here with me because riskin' your life for one walker is stupid and I much prefer you in one piece,” Rick says and it sounds less like a suggestion and more like a command. Which Daryl _could_ dismiss if it wasn’t for the look on Rick’s face. He’s powerless against this man. Still, he’s extremely pissed over being interrupted, and he motions to his erection that’s still expecting some kind of relief.

“What am I s'posed to do with this, then?”

Rick shrugs, saying that “I won’t stop ya from trying your luck crankin’ one out with the sound of walker moans in your ears”, and that does help Daryl go down to half-mast at least. Rick gives him a sympathetic smile and lifts the blanket up to invite Daryl to lay with him. Daryl’s defeated, utterly and thoroughly defeated. He joins Rick on the sofa, laying half his weight on the other man and humming in approval when said man wraps his arms around him, placing a kiss on his forehead.

“There’s always tomorrow, you know.”

“Not always,” Daryl disagrees, muscles already loosening up as Rick strokes up and down his back.

“Maybe not. But for now, there is. And I intend to give you more than enough reason to make sure there will be more tomorrows,” Rick promises, yawning, and Daryl smiles to himself, his head tucked comfortably against Rick’s chest where he can hear his heartbeat in his ear. It almost drowns out the sound of the walker, or maybe it’s Daryl who doesn’t let it bother him as long as he can stay like this for a while.

“You already do,” he whispers and Rick makes a happy sound in the back of his throat, but you can hear by his breathing that he’s already beginning to drift off. That’s absolutely fine. He deserves to rest, and the idea that Daryl can help him do that without dreading or resisting it is something truly extraordinary. Soon enough, sleep is getting a hold of Daryl as well, the steady rise and fall of Rick’s chest soothing him, and he lets himself be in this moment, his mind blissfully empty for once, and his heart full.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand that's a wrap! Hope you enjoyed this fic, I had a ton of fun writing it. :)

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this and if it's half as fun to read then I am content. Thank you so much for reading, kudos and comments/critiques are always welcome and appreciated! :)


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